


A Purple Cow

by The Hag (hagsrus)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hagsrus/pseuds/The%20Hag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by Gelett Burgess</p><p>Originally appeared in the IDP Press zine <br/>"Whatever We Are, You Made Us"</p><p>September 1999</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Purple Cow

(Verse by Gelett Burgess)

I never saw a Purple Cow,  
I never hope to see one;  
But I can tell you, anyhow,  
I'd rather see than be one.

 

They helped the Controller of CI5 out of the borrowed horsebox   
and round the side of Doyle's house into the garden.

"Just hang on till moonrise, sir," Bodie said soothingly. "Might want   
to do a few leg warm-up exercises meanwhile."

Cowley gave him a sour look and helped himself to one of Doyle's   
petunias.

"Water in the lily tub," Doyle told him, "and if you need it, the   
compost pile's behind the trellis."

"That what's been stinking the place up?" Bodie asked with   
interest. "I thought you'd forgotten to wash your feet again."

"Got a fresh load of manure from the mounted police stables   
yesterday," Doyle explained. "Hasn't had time to settle down yet.   
Sir, not the lobelia, they're a bit toxic - oh well," he added   
philosophically, "too late. Let's get on with it."

"Spiteful sod, that Willis," Bodie remarked as they went into the   
house. "I mean, bad enough casting spells on the Old Man to keep   
him away from the budget conference, but he could at least have   
turned him into a purple _bull_."

"You just fancy yourself in a red cape and those tight... See if you   
can find my crystal dish," Doyle instructed, rummaging in a   
drawer. "I think it's in the fridge."

Bodie extricated a bowl of bean sprouts. "This it?"

"Yeah." Doyle unearthed a heavy silver spoon. "Empty 'em into   
something else, will you?"

"Turn them into something good?" Bodie asked optimistically.   
"Need to keep my strength up. Ice cream?"

"The magic's for work, you know," Doyle told him sternly. "Oh, all   
right, give it here, then. He still hasn't signed that expense chit."   
He made a couple of passes with the spoon, then gave it to Bodie.   
"Wash 'em both up when you've finished, and don't go scrubbin' the   
enchantment off."

"Where did you get them?" Bodie asked curiously, admiring the   
delicately faceted crystal and the intricate moulding of the spoon   
as he carefully rinsed them at the sink.

"Legacy from my Nan - she thought I'd inherited the talent. Can't   
usually do anything with 'em, but her residual magic keeps the   
bean sprouts fresh. Think a guitar will do instead of a fiddle?"

"Dunno. You're the warlock. That ice cream was fantastic - real   
strawberry taste!"

"Yeah, the spoon often perks flavours up." Doyle took a plate of   
leftovers out of the fridge.

"Here, what are you doing with the sausages?" Bodie demanded   
indignantly. "I want those for later!"

"Bribery and corruption. Go and charm Mrs Woodhouse at number   
22 into a loan of Yorkshire Ripper and I'll get hold of Moggy-Next-  
Door."

When Bodie returned with the silky-haired little dog tucked under   
his arm he found Doyle sitting at the kitchen table, staring down   
into the crystal bowl which he'd filled with an amber-coloured   
fluid.

"Do you scry at weddings too?" Bodie sniffed. "You using that   
Glenlivet I got you for your birthday?"

"Yeah," Doyle said apologetically. "Wasn't gettin' anywhere with   
water, but the spirits are bein' quite helpful. Trick Nan passed on.   
Hello, Rip." He patted the Yorkie's head. "You been a good dog,   
then?"

"Barbara says she'll be glad to see the back of him for a couple of   
hours. He's been subverting her Rottweiler obedience class. Says   
he should have been called a terror, not a terrier. How are you   
going to get him to laugh, then?"

"Give him a sausage. He'll wag his tail, that's close enough. It's all   
symbolic, anyway."

"Symbolic of what?"

"Forces," Doyle said vaguely. "Ideas. Morphic resonance. Energy   
focussing. If I was really good at it like my Nan we wouldn't need   
any of this carry-on, just the basic magic, but the ritual's like   
stepping stones. Landmarks."

Bodie looked dubious. "Hope it'll work. If Cowley doesn't get to   
the budget conference we could lose half the year's funding to   
Willis's mob. So what did you see in the malt?"

"Interestin'," Doyle replied. "It's functioning like a radar dish. And   
guess who's hoverin' about up there waitin' to intercept the Cow?"

"Willis? Got a chopper, has he?"

"No." Doyle grinned. "We already knew he was a swine. Now he's   
gone the whole hog. Turned himself into a pig and got a pair of   
those experimental wings from somewhere. Job for you, mate. On   
your broomstick!"

"I hate broomsticks," Bodie groused. "Nothing to hang on to   
properly."

"Tried to convince Cowley to get 'em fitted with handholds," Doyle   
said, "but he claims all this supernatural lark plays merry hell with   
the budget as it is. He'll probably be moaning about me   
requisitioning the whole quarterly magic appropriation for   
tonight. You've got a lovely seat on a broomstick, though,   
sunshine - well, it's a lovely seat anywhere." He patted it   
affectionately.

"Feels effeminate, broomsticks, somehow," Bodie complained.   
"They're for witches. Like riding a woman's bike."

"Stereotype, that is. Got very potent phallic associations,   
broomsticks," Doyle assured him. "Right up your alley."

"Not mine, thank you! Quite enough having _you_ up my alley   
every other night."

Doyle handed him the spoon. "Solid silver, this. Good as a silver   
bullet if you use it right."

"Be a pleasure," Bodie said grimly. "Been waiting for a chance at   
the bastard. I'll sizzle his bacon for him. Give us a kiss for luck?"

"Berk!" Doyle obliged. "Sure you don't want me hanky to wear as a   
favour?"

"Not after I saw you wiping off motor oil with it. Rather have one   
of your horrible socks."

Doyle took a last long, thoughtful look into the scrying dish,   
smiled to himself, then followed Bodie out into the garden. The   
smell from the compost was terrible. "Lobelia," Doyle murmured.   
"Knew they'd upset him." He held out the bowl of Glenlivet. "Here,   
sir, this'll set you up. Shouldn't mix moos and booze, but it   
probably can't hurt for once."

Bodie hauled the broomstick out of its parking spot, straddled it   
and swept off into the dark sky with a war cry of "Sooey! Here,   
piggy-wig!" Doyle and Cowley waited with bated breath until an   
agonised "Oink!" shattered the night and a stunned boar crash-  
landed at their feet, a pair of pink wings detaching and melting   
away.

"Gave him a hell of a ding at the end of his nose," Bodie   
triumphed, leaping off the broomstick and handing Doyle the   
spoon.

"Ah, well, a bit of rhyming transformation, then - " Doyle gestured   
with the spoon. "Now it's a _ring_ at the end of his nose. He'll have   
fun gettin' rid of that. And we'll just keep him in this shape till the   
budget conference is over, shall we, sir?"

"Mooo!" Alpha One approved. There was a light of whisky-fuelled   
vengeance in his eye. He lowered his head and charged Willis,   
heaving him up and over the trellis where he landed with a   
malodorous _SPLAT_

"Oh, very nice, sir," Bodie congratulated him. "Who says you don't   
give a toss? Perfect poke in a pig, that was. And very humane - we   
know he'll be happy in the compost."

"Could've crumpled a horn, sir," Doyle reproved. "Nearly gave us a   
short sharp shower, too. Look, the moon's rising: let's get on with   
it."

He placed his guitar on the ground.

"On three, sunshine," he told Bodie. "Remember the words?" Bodie   
rolled his eyes and muttered something about eggs. "One, two,   
three!"

"HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE!"

Doyle threw a sausage to Rip to keep him busy. He dropped   
another onto the guitar strings, and Moggy-Next-Door pounced,   
drawing forth a discordant twang. A haze of sorcery puffed around   
the garden.

"Now, sir!" Bodie urged.

With a mighty effort, the Cow jumped towards the moon.

They watched until his dwindling silhouette was too small to see,   
then Doyle tossed the last sausage to Rip, checked that the tail-  
wagging mechanism was engaged, grabbed the dish and spoon,   
thrust the dish into Bodie's right hand and seized hold of his left.   
"Run!" he ordered.

They hurdled the discarded broomstick and double-timed back   
into the house.

"That should do it." Doyle leaned out of the window. "Give us a   
bark when you see him coming back down," he told Rip, "and keep   
an eye on the pig, and I'll see you right." He started to put the   
spoon away, then caught Bodie's wistful eye and conjured three   
replacement sausages into the dish. "He'll be about an hour round   
trip, I reckon. Should be his usual sweet self when he lands.   
Better have the rest of the Glenlivet handy. Hope his clothes get   
turned back too."

"Maybe he'll be dressed in leather," Bodie speculated. "I could use   
a coffee." He switched the kettle on.

"Have to be black," Doyle warned him. "Gave the last of the cream   
to Moggy. Should have thought of that before ... no, don't suppose   
he'd've fancied bein' milked."

"No point keeping a cow and mooing yourself." Bodie finished the   
last sausage. "I mean, why buy milk when you can get a purple   
cow? God, that broomstick gets me all muddled, don't know what   
I'm saying."

"Excitement of gettin' hitched," Doyle suggested casually.

"You what?"

"Jumped the broomstick together, didn't we?"

Bodie smiled with sudden happiness. "Think that'll be enough to   
hold us? There's the Hoover as well, you know." He spooned   
instant coffee into mugs, added water, put sugar in one,   
borrowed the spoon and stirred them both. "Thought I'd never get   
you up to scratch!"

"Well, it's all that moonlight. Always was a romantic." Doyle   
sipped his coffee. "Had a shufti while I was whisky-gazing: don't   
see anythin' better than you loomin' up in me future."

Bodie shook his head bemusedly. "Think Willis would sell us that   
ring?"

"Flog his ring for a shilling? In a pig's...nose." Doyle swallowed   
more coffee. "Mmm, that's very nice. Never tried the spoon with   
coffee before. Tastes like best fresh-ground. Wish we could have   
gone along with the Cow. Like to see the moon close up."

"Over the moon already. Honeymoon." Bodie gave him a look of   
deep contentment and slid an arm round his waist. "Try and   
wangle a few days if the Old Man's feeling grateful when he lands.   
Probably cow us into submission though."

"Get 'im to ruminate about it." Doyle's face creased into a tender,   
chip-toothed grin. "Finish your coffee, sweetheart, and we'll go   
and have a bit of the old conjugals."

"Let's take the spoon with us while the magic's still working,"   
Bodie suggested. "Got a couple of ideas."

They made passionate purple love till the Cow came home.

 

Ah, yes! I wrote the 'Purple Cow' -   
I'm sorry now I wrote it!  
But I can tell you, anyhow,  
I'll kill you if you quote it!


End file.
